


No One Could Save Me But You

by citizenjess (givehimonemore)



Category: X-Men (Movies)
Genre: M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Prison Sex, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-01
Updated: 2012-01-01
Packaged: 2017-10-28 16:35:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/309845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/givehimonemore/pseuds/citizenjess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erik ruminates on Charles' visits to his cell after he's taken into custody. Set before/during "X2."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Warning for implications of physical/psychological harm, and one reference to suicide. Title is from Chris Isaak's "Wicked Game." Somebody suggested it as an Erik/Charles song the other day over at erik_charles or oldfriends, and ... they're right, it's kind of perfect.

You can hear the procession that accompanies his visit well before he's actually there with you; the clean slide of plastic, the various non-metal devices all carefully put in place to keep you where you are. It's a laughable amount of effort, you think, especially considering how easy it would be to circumvent all of it the moment somebody is the least bit careless, but for now, it is your prison, and the man being put through a series of metal detection devices at the moment is your only visitor, and the only person you both love and loathe to see.

The first time he came, he brought gifts, a small paper bag that he then unloaded meticulously in various locations around the small room. You finger the dog-eared copy of 'The Once and Future King' from that visit now, smoothing your hand over the page before carefully inserting the bit of paper you've been using as a bookmark between the pages. When he finally does arrive, you offer the same greeting you have at the beginning of every visit, and he returns it with his own well-practiced rejoinder: "Charles Xavier. Have you come to rescue me?"

"Sorry, Erik, not today." There's always a sadness to these exchanges; Charles pities you, you can see it in his soft gaze, in the way he seems to be cataloguing the graying of your hair, the lines in your face. He knows, or thinks he knows, how cut off you must feel from yourself without metal constantly at your fingertips, the way you'd have it if you were free, and you can see it etched into his expression as his eyes sweep over you and his fingertips drum softly against the arms of his chair. He's uncomfortable seeing you like this, you know. His concern annoys you; at the same time, you ache for these too-short visits, for the way a mere hour in Charles' presence can make you feel like the past weeks, months, years never happened. Sometimes, when it's time for him to leave, you have to physically restrain yourself from reaching out to him and pleading for his help. It wouldn't take much, you know: The visits from William Stryker, and the increasingly liberal verbal and physical abuse from Laurio would be enough to horrify Charles' bleeding heart.

'I'd do whatever you want,' you think before you bite down on your tongue, hard enough to make it bleed, in order to recant. 'You could lock me up in that big house of yours, strip me of my memories, make me your docile puppet, and let me know that that's exactly what you plan to do, and I would go with you willingly, because at least then, I know you would care about me as something more than a number, a name that you spit as part of your daily rounds.' What stops you from throwing yourself on Charles' mercy, of course, is pride. You've been through worse, you rationalize, than the business end of some thug's prison weapon; and you can play William Stryker's game, even though the helplessness you feel in the aftermath of each injection to the back of your neck makes you curl up into a ball in the corner of your cell for hours, willing yourself to just die. It hurts; but, you remind yourself, you haven't exactly made an effort to endear yourself to these homo sapiens. If this is the only recourse they have, you pity them, really.

Charles smiles at you now, the same soft, lovely pressing together of lips that you've always been taken by, and you frown grumpily at him. Charles huffs a laugh and wheels himself - in his ugly, temporary plastic chair, of course - towards the small table set up in the center of the room. "Shall we pick up where we left off the last time, then?" he asks, and you slink down in your own seat across from him, willing the hour to be over quickly, and then simultaneously, wishing it would never end.

When it is over, you can't help but be smug when you notice Charles' own distaste for Laurio. You're sure the feeling is mutual - it's fairly common knowledge to your captors at this point that Charles is a terribly powerful telepath, a fact which intrigues and concerns you - but you nonetheless enjoy the way Charles raises an aristocratic eyebrow, just enough for it to be recognizable as disdain, as Laurio grips his chair and whisks him away. After he's well and truly gone, for however long until he decides to grace you with his presence again, you turn on the small radio - another of Charles' thoughtful little gifts, so perfect and obvious that it makes you a bit ill - and try to surround yourself with the soft tinkling of the classical music you both enjoy, as though it is any sort of substitute for him.

*

He senses your scattered thoughts, your jumpy demeanor immediately the next time he arrives, the same way that you can tell this isn't just a courtesy visit. Charles needs something from you, and in return, you are going to betray him. In fact, you already have.

The mention of Stryker puts him immediately on the defensive. After that, it doesn't take much for the story to unravel; to get everything out in the open, you let him into your mind, leading him to your latest encounter with Stryker. "It's not just a school, though, is it, Erik?" he asks, and his voice is pleasant enough, but you know that one finger crook will have Laurio bearing down on you with his heavy plastic club again, and you're so tired. The back of your neck itches and you resist the urge to raise your hand; you won't give him that.

"I don't know," you tell him coolly, and you see his eyes flash to ice. Laurio swings and hits you between the shoulder blades, and your stomach churns.

"We'll try this again," Stryker says tersely, and Laurio smirks. "Tell me why there's a launch pad for a jet that comes out of the basketball court."

Charles gapes at you pityingly, and also with something akin to terror in his eyes as the memory peters off, the gist more than well conveyed. "Erik, what did you do?" he asks you brokenly, and you bite back a sob. This isn't the first time you've done something terrible to this man, but the stakes have never been so high before. 'Forgive me,' you think. Outwardly, however, you clutch at your throat as the gas begins to seep through strategically placed holes in the plastic walls of the cell, your voice rasping, angry. "You should have killed me when you had the chance!" you yell, and Charles conveys wordless pain through your brief telepathic bond before everything goes dark.

When you wake up anew, he's gone. Briefly, you're terrified that Stryker has killed him, but, you think, he's too valuable, too powerful to simply be wiped out altogether. You try to contact him with your mind, but even though you suspect Charles is closer to you currently than he would be in Westchester, you receive no reply. Still, you hope, and vow, and plot.

It's not until Laurio returns with your breakfast the next morning - you don't know if you've simply been out long enough to warrant skipping dinner, or if it was an intentional lapse, nor do you care; you can play whatever game they use to try and break you - that the immensity of what you've done truly sets in, however. "Your friend's mind tricks were no match for knock-out gas," Laurio tells you smugly, plunking your food tray down with no small amount of animosity. His eyes are cruel, but you meet his gaze head-on, refusing to bend, even a little. His next words, however, make you flinch: "I guess even mutants aren't invincible," he insinuates, and then he's gone.

'I'm sorry,' you think desperately, and suddenly, you feel incredibly trapped, a wild animal in a cage that has been created specifically for your torment. 'I'm so sorry, Charles. I'm going to get you out of there, whatever it takes,' you think. Then you start pacing, and then, when it's not enough, you begin tearing up the room within your limited means. You upend the breakfast tray, even though you're technically hungry, chuck the radio with all your might, tear up the thin bed coverings, rip pages from your book. When your rage peters off, you sit in 'your' seat at the small table in the center of the room. You've left the chess board untouched, and when Laurio deigns to grace you with his presence several hours from now, this is where he'll find you sitting, looking vacant and vulnerable, before he wrenches your arm behind your back and shoves you to the cold concrete on your knees, yelling at you to clean up your own mess. When his stick purposefully scatters the chess pieces across the cell, each one making a soft 'plink' sound as it bounces and rolls, you grit your teeth and think of vengeance and freedom and Charles, and then you do as he asks.


	2. Conjugal Visit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here is an add-on 'ficlet: Basically, a bit of old dude smut, wherein Charles gives Erik something (hurr hurr) that he's been missing while he's been locked away. Also set during "X2."

"It's torment, isn't it?" he asks, and you glare at him.

"What is?"

"Not being able to feel anything. Any metal, I mean. After so long, having it there, a part of you, and then being cut off, knowing it's still out there, but being unable to access it." His eyes are piteous, and you rage at them.

"Spare me your sympathy, Charles."

To his benefit, he only looks slightly wounded at your rebuff. "I never wanted this for you, Erik," he says softly, and you meet his gaze. He seems to take this as an invitation to wheel himself closer; his hand on your shoulder is begrudgingly nice. It's been quite some time since you've been touched, even comforted, and the realization that you need it seems to reach both of you simultaneously.

Charles' eyes widen slightly, and his fingers brush his temple. "We have privacy for the moment," he tells you, and then gestures briefly towards the cot in the corner of the room. "Lie down," he nods, and you sigh and make your way towards the bed; uncomfortable, but it'll serve its purpose well enough. Charles follows in the plastic contraption that he has to use while he's here, and you idly wonder what it would take for him to simply place an errant paper clip into his pocket and forget about it. People do things like that, you protest to yourself, but then you decide that Charles would never make that kind of folly. Somehow, he's above it.

He rolls his eyes a little as he reaches you, his gaze loving. "You overestimate my abilities, my friend," he tells you, and then motions you to rise. You prop yourself on your elbows and then there he is, close now, and you tug his face down and shove your lips together, kissing him hungrily, gripping the back of his head like you're drowning and he's your only hope for rescue. "Missed you," Charles grunts as you break for air, and you help him maneuver out of the chair, a bit roughly, but then he's effectively squatting on the edge of the mattress, and you both moan as he leans over you and shoves your chests and then faces together anew. Your arms shake a little as you clutch at him, out of desperation, loneliness, love, but as usual, Charles is too polite to comment on it.

When his hand strays towards the slight bulge at your crotch, you practically sob with relief - the see-through nature of your plastic prison makes it such that having a private moment is near-impossible; not to mention, the guard, Laurio, seems to enjoy humiliating you at every turn, so you often don't want to risk being caught in the act - and then hiss when Charles cups your balls. "C-Charles," you murmur, but he places his free hand to your lips, and then cards them through your hair.

"Ssshh. Just relax. Enjoy this, Erik," he says, and you lay back, still instinctively stifling a moan when Charles' hand curls around your member, expertly knowing just where and how to touch, because he's Charles Xavier, and he knows everything about you, even this. You reach out and clutch his free hand to your chest, and he smiles down at you, continuing to jerk you off, giving it to you as fast and frantically as he knows you need.

"Love you," he whispers, and brushes his mouth to yours, and then his thumb brushes the head of your cock, and you throw your head back and come in several spurts with a loud groan. In the aftermath, he pets your face and croons at you, and then straightens and politely asks you to help him get back into his chair. When you glance down at his lap, he simply shakes his head. "It's all right, my friend," he insists, and you don't have the energy to argue with him today, so you simply do as he asks, but refuse to let him go again until you've plundered his mouth deeply one last time with yours, your tongue rubbing against his for several long seconds. His pupils are a bit dilated when you break away at last, his tie slightly askew, and you can't help but be a bit smug about that.

When Laurio finally saunters in some time later, he glares at you from behind your place at the makeshift chess table, and then reaches for the handles on the back of Charles' chair. "Until we meet again, Erik," Charles says innocuously, the picture of prim innocence once more, and you smirk at the suspicious expression on Laurio's face as he wheels your friend, your lover, your salvation away, knowing he'll be back, because you know Charles Xavier can't stay away for long.


End file.
